Like a River

by Beate Sigriddaughter

He rushed by her like a river. Like lightning in summer rain, a flash that turned from promise into memory, followed by the unexpected. She really didn’t want to leave. She flicked the stem of her apple on the side of the road. There. She had eaten the rest, including the core, including the seeds. Let an apple tree grow inside her. She didn’t care. He had a way of looking at eagles in flight, as though he could see his soul up there among them. Once he had looked at her like that. She zipped up her jacket. She wasn’t far now from the river and its tantalizing hanging bridge. She could hear the roar of the water. So close. Snow started falling. She reviewed the confusing beauty of fairy tales. In one you are rewarded for heeding every call for help, the bread in the oven, the apples ripe on their tree. In another you are forbidden to heed all cries, or you would never manage your impossible task. And so it was in her world. That’s why you came equipped with a heart, the river whispered, to help you choose in all this confusion.

Beate Sigriddaughter (sigriddaughter.net) grew up in Nürnberg, Germany, and lives and writes in Silver City, New Mexico (Land of Enchantment), where she has served as poet laureate. She is on Facebook @ beate.sigriddaughter.